


All my stumbling phrases never amounted to anything worth this feeling

by sociallyinept



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Baking, Established Relationship, Failwolf Friday, M/M, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2013-01-19
Packaged: 2017-11-26 00:57:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/644776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sociallyinept/pseuds/sociallyinept
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek wants to do something meaningful for Stiles' birthday. Of course with his luck, things don't quite go according to plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All my stumbling phrases never amounted to anything worth this feeling

**Author's Note:**

> This came about months ago thanks to a prompt by @dark_orchae, and recent Failwolf Fridays gave me the push I needed to finish it!
> 
> Thanks to the lovely @eloiserummaging for beta <3
> 
> All remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> Title from Florence + the Machine's 'All This and Heaven Too'.

It's not like Derek doesn't shop for groceries. He does, and on a weekly basis, too. He just doesn't really know anything about _this_. For starters, the recipe in his hand says plain flour, and right now he's standing in the store staring at a box of all-purpose flour and trying not to break anything in his mounting frustration. Plain flour and all-purpose flour are the same thing. Right?

His entire baking experience is limited to the few times he walked in on his mother throwing a bunch of ingredients into a big bowl, and even then, all he'd cared about at the time was making sure he got to lick the bowl clean after. After the fire, there had been that one time, when they'd settled into an apartment in Brooklyn after four years of constant moving, and Laura had decided that brownies would be a good way to celebrate their semi-normalcy.

"You can't fuck up brownies," she'd said, proud, and for a moment he could see their mother in the way she’d held herself. He'd spun around and left for work, calling out, "whatever you say, Laura," over his shoulder as he swung open the front door.

The smell was the first indicator, belied only by the more overwhelming feeling of Laura’s disappointment when he burst through the door. He’d come home to Laura viciously cutting the burnt top off the saddest looking brownie ever. Derek wordlessly had walked over and dumped the whole thing in the trash before drawing her into a hug. Laura never tried baking again.

Needless to say, Derek doesn't have very much experience with baking. It's entirely Scott's fault now, really, that he's standing in the grocery store and glaring at a box of flour like it could make or break his happiness. And maybe it could, because he wants to get this right. He _needs_ to get this right.

"There are these cookies he loves," Scott had started saying, when Derek had grudgingly approached him to ask for help with Stiles' birthday present. Scott, however, had shut his mouth abruptly once he'd seen the dismay on Derek's face.

"I don't bake," Derek had managed to say, and it was probably the look of pity Scott had given him that had renewed his resolve. He was going to do this, for Stiles. After everything Stiles had done for him -- for everything Stiles was to him, he was going to do this. "Just tell me," he'd sighed, and that was that.

So he stands at a loss in the baking aisle, armed with the recipe Scott had gotten from Stiles' dad, of this famed cookie recipe Stiles' mom used to make. A cure for all ills, apparently. No pressure at all. Derek takes a deep breath and contemplates calling Lydia. She kind of likes him now, he thinks. She'll probably help. Also she's the least likely to make fun of him, which is not something he'd have predicted if you'd have asked him three years ago.

"Tell me no one's dying," is what he gets instead of a hello.

"I need help," he intones. He's gotten a lot better at the asking for help thing. It's like he's conditioned to now, almost. You don't spend the better part of two years with Stiles around determinedly poking holes in your plans without doing something about it. "Baking help," he adds, when Lydia isn't forthcoming with a response.

"I don't bake," Lydia says, airily, and Derek can just envision her flipping her hair as she says it.

"It's for Stiles," Derek sighs. It's impressive, really, how patient he is these days. There is a whole lot less growling on his part. Stiles would be proud. _You've come a long way, sour wolf,_ he imagines a voice in his head saying, unmistakably and affectionately Stiles. Derek's heart skips a beat.

"Of course it's for Stiles. Some people just say I love you, Derek," she quips, and he grips the basket handle so hard the metal creaks. Lydia sighs. "Ask me then," and this time he can actually hear her tapping her toes on the other end of the line. He lets himself relax. Always impatient, Lydia.

"The recipe wants plain flour and I am only seeing all-purpose," he starts, failing to tamper down the exasperation creeping into his voice.

Lydia inhales sharply, a familiar _don’t waste my time_ sound. "Just read me the list and pick up what I tell you to."

 

*

 

If Derek thought buying the ingredients was tough, he’s woefully unprepared for the nightmare that is the actual baking process. There are all of four steps to the recipe; it shouldn't be this difficult.

Things start going wrong from the beginning, really, when the recipe says to cream the butter and sugar. But he’s already used up his Lydia Aid allotment for the day, and he figures it can’t be all that hard. He takes the butter out, cuts up what he thinks is about the right amount and drops it in a big bowl. He’d bought the bowl at the store too, since the one thing he was sure about at the time was that baking required a large bowl. He hunts through the drawers and only manages to find a wooden spoon but decides that it’ll suffice. As he prods at the chunks of butter, it occurs to him that there‘s no way he’s going to get it mixed with the sugar in that state. He takes the butter out of the bowl, sticks it in a smaller one and puts the bowl in the microwave for half a minute with some sugar. The butter emerges mostly melted, but the sugar is “incorporated,” so he counts it a win. He pours the butter and sugar back in the big bowl and adds two eggs next without getting any shell bits in the bowl.

The next step of the recipe tells him to fold the flour into the mixture. He glances back at the word 'whisk' in second step and deflates. What's the difference between folding and whisking? He’s only got the one spoon, anyway, so it isn’t as though he has many options. Derek is all but growling at the batter in the bowl by the time four o'clock arrives. He'd asked Stiles to come by at five which left little time for cleaning up or ordering takeout from Stiles' favorite place.

Derek stabs the batter with the wooden spoon a few more times, decides it’s as good as it’s going to get, and gets out the baking tray he’d just bought. He uses a small teaspoon to scoop dollops of the mix onto the tray and sprinkles it with crushed cornflakes, then quickly shoves the tray into the oven and out of his sight.

 

*

 

It’s just his luck that the oven goes off just as he hears Stiles’ jeep pull up outside, and of course he’s only halfway into his nicest pair of jeans. They’re not exactly the most comfortable (or the most accessible) but he likes the way they make Stiles’ eyes darken every time he wears them. He yanks his jeans up and throws on a soft, worn Henley before taking the steps down four at a time.

He’s barely got a foot in the kitchen when it suddenly hits him: the smell of something burning. Suddenly he can’t move, because _no_ , not in this house, _not again._ He’s snapped out of it by Stiles hopping up and down, spitting “ow, fuck, fuck, shit,” as he blows and sucks on his finger. Derek rushes over to the open oven door and slams it shut so fast that Stiles jumps back in shock. There’s no salvaging this situation, because the cookies are obviously a disaster. He knew they’d be, really. There’s no denying it at this point.

“Were you baking?” Stiles asks, and his voice is sharp and incredulous and—awed? Derek doesn’t know if he’s hearing that right or if it’s wishful thinking. He’s too busy feeling overwhelmed by his failure.

“No,” he grits out, and turns off the oven, angrily switching all the knobs back to neutral. The timer knob comes off when he twists it and he just stares at it where it sits in his hand.

“Derek?” and this time Stiles’ voice is void of sharpness and disbelief, instead it’s low and concerned, like he’s approaching a wild and easily spooked animal. Derek wants to laugh (or cry) because Stiles hasn’t used this tone with him in a while.

Cool fingers curl along his jaw and he turns to press his cheek against Stiles’ hand with a slow exhale. “Yes,” he concedes after a moment. “Well, I was trying to,” he adds quickly, and it’s a testament to Stiles’ ability to know what Derek needs these days that Stiles doesn’t laugh, instead leaning in to kiss the corner of his jaw.

“It’s alright,” Stiles says encouragingly against the side of his face, and all Derek can do is make a reproachful sound in response. “Any reason for your sudden interest in cookies, or did Isaac put you up to it?”

Stiles is bound to find out sooner or later, so Derek reaches over and picks up the recipe, dusts off the flour, and presses it to Stiles’ chest. “They were for you,” he says, and the way Stiles’ eyes go wide and soft makes a tiny warmth glow inside him.

“Scott?” is all Stiles says after a moment, holding the recipe delicately, like it could crumble to dust.

“Yeah, I -”

Derek doesn’t get any further because Stiles is pressing him up against the counter and kissing him, hard -- bruising, biting kisses that steal his breath and his words. He’s grateful, because he still doesn’t know what he was going to say, and all he can do is wrap his hands around Stiles’ hips and hold on.

Stiles pulls back and presses their foreheads together.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, and Derek feels like an idiot because he doesn’t understand.

“But they’re ruined.” _I ruined your mother’s cookies_ , he doesn’t say.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Stiles says reassuringly, and he holds up the recipe for Derek to look at. “It’s Scott’s handwriting, and I’m pretty sure the cookies were supposed to be in there for fifteen minutes, not twenty-five.”

“Oh,” is all he manages. And that’s. That’s good. It means he can’t be that much of a failure. “I’m going to kill Scott,” he adds, for good measure.

“No, you’re not. We talked about this, remember?” Stiles smiles at him fondly. “Small problems, simple solutions. No killing Scott. We can try again, make them together?” Stiles suggests, slipping his arms around Derek’s neck and leaning in to nuzzle the back of his ear. A pleased rumble starts, low in Derek’s chest, and he tilts his head to the side as a clear sign for Stiles to keep going.

“I know what you could do to make it up to me,” Stiles murmurs, lips to Derek’s ear, making him shiver. And god, it’s so cheesy and Stiles knows it, but _this_ , this is a thing Derek can do now. In a breath he’s got them spun around and Stiles pushed up against the counter instead.

“Upstairs,” Stiles chokes out, breathless from how quickly Derek burst into action, and Derek growls, low, because he wants, and his wolf still gets impatient. It’s through no small effort that he pulls away and takes Stiles by the hand to drag him upstairs. Stiles is laughing, linking their fingers together as they take the stairs, two at a time. It’s one of Derek’s favourite sounds.

Stiles is quick to spin them and pin Derek against the door once they’re in Derek’s room, hands attacking Derek’s jeans like they’re something offensive. Derek leans back, deciding to be unhelpful just because he can. He bites down a smirk at Stiles all flustered and exasperated by Derek’s attitude.

“Hey, you’re supposed to be making this up to me and not making me do all the work!” Stiles pouts - or tries to, eyes glazing over and mouth going slack again within seconds when Derek tugs his Henley over his head and hooks his fingers in his own belt loops.

“I put on these jeans for you. Don’t feel like taking them off so soon,” Derek reasons, pretty sound logic that Stiles doesn’t seem to appreciate like he otherwise would. “Also your birthday isn’t till tomorrow, so my promise to do anything you wanted doesn’t kick in till midnight.”

Stiles steps back like he’s considering something, and then turns around and walks over to the bed, stopping to rummage in the bedside drawer. Lube in hand, he leaps and sprawls out over Derek’s large bed.

His wolf whines as soon as Stiles starts getting naked, wanting to touch, put his hands all over that inviting skin, but he waits, stays with his back pressed to the door, watching intently as Stiles touches himself idly.

“I don’t know why you do that,” Stiles sighs a little mournfully from across the room, breath hitching as he curls fingers loosely around his cock. “It’s not like it benefits anyone, Derek, and I know you want to touch, rub yourself all over me in that ridiculous wolfy way you do.”

Derek opens his mouth to respond and ends up inhaling sharply instead, having forgotten to breathe for a minute. “Makes it better,” he grits out, unable to keep from palming himself through his jeans as he watches Stiles get lube on those long blunt fingers and spread his legs for Derek to see. “Fuck, Stiles.” He doesn’t think he’s going to hold out very long.

“This is your fault,” Stiles says, amazingly matter-of-fact, fingers circling his own hole maddeningly. “I’ve been needing this for days, haven’t stopped thinking about it since I fucked you last week and you came so hard you almost wolfed out. Reminded me of - oh god- of our first time.” Derek goes slack-jawed, really fucking hard now, heart hammering in his chest as Stiles slides a finger in and out of himself slowly and deliberately. He releases a shuddery breath thinking of how it feels when Stiles does that to him, slow and steady strokes that just light Derek up from the inside until he’s so hot he must be burning.

“Stiles,” Derek croaks, helpless, and Stiles only spreads his legs further in response.

“I need you to fuck me now, okay?” Stiles’ face is twisted with need and pleasure, fingers stroking in and out faster though Derek knows the angle is far from ideal. “Even that stupid dildo wasn’t enough last night, fuck,” Stiles exhales harshly, and that image of Stiles in bed with the ridiculous dildo up his ass just shatters Derek’s resolve. In three steps and a low growl he’s at the foot of the bed, jeans tossed in a corner somewhere, and pressing Stiles’ legs further apart with one hand, the other nudging up against where Stiles has two fingers inside himself.

Stiles makes a keening noise when Derek lines his finger up and presses in, the sound hitting Derek low in his gut. He curls his finger and lets it glance across Stiles’ prostate, arousal coiling tighter and tighter when Stiles cries out and twists a free hand in the sheets, mouth falling open in a wordless gasp as Derek pulls out.

“Yeah, god, more,” he says, breathless. “Come on, Derek. Now, right now.”

Derek grabs the lube and Stiles gratefully withdraws his fingers, reaching blindly to wipe them on the edge of the sheets. Derek slicks his fingers up because he wants to see Stiles take four of them, and when he lines them up and starts to push in, Stiles’ eyes go wide, mouth slack, hands fumbling around haphazardly until he’s gripping the base of his dick to keep from coming. Derek leans close and noses along Stiles’ inner thigh, easing his fingers the rest of the way in as slowly as he can, his mouth watering as the head of Stiles’ dick drools precome.

Stiles manages a smile that’s equal parts appreciation and lust as Derek’s fingers sink deeper, and a rush of affection grips Derek’s insides and twists almost painfully as he forces himself to remember how to breathe. Derek is left with no option but to lean forward and swallow the smile in a brutal kiss before it ruins him completely.

He’s fairly certain that sex with Stiles is going to kill him one day, because while it had started out okay and gotten better once they’d gotten through Derek’s many hangups, it’s since ventured into absolutely unchartered territory. He can count on one hand the number of people he’s slept with, mostly nothing but one night stands he’d walked away from the next day feeling numb. He’s not stupid; he knows that part of why the sex is so overwhelming now has a lot to do with how he feels about Stiles. How they feel about each other. It’s not a secret from Stiles that the last person Derek said ‘I love you’ to burned his family alive the next day, and Stiles has never needed him to say it.

Stiles tangles his fingers in Derek’s hair and gives as good as he’s getting, tilting Derek’s head a little and sweeping his tongue along the insides of Derek’s mouth. It takes Derek a few seconds to realise he’s forgotten about his fingers before he starts moving them again, less patience this time and a lot more intent in the way the press of his fingers fills Stiles up over and over again. The kiss turns messy and filthy quickly, and Derek has to pull back and sit up so he can see everything as he withdraws his fingers and slicks up his cock. Stiles spreads his legs even further, head tipped back with a low moan and a breathless _okay, get in me now I’m not going to ask again_ , that has Derek tamping down on the wolf’s urge to howl. He hauls Stiles closer, holds him open and watches himself sink into Stiles’ tight heat inch by inch. Stiles is never more quiet than he is as Derek bottoms out, like all the air has been punched out of his lungs and he can’t inhale more until Derek pulls out again. Derek wraps a hand around Stiles’ cock and strokes him slowly, eyes fixated on where his dick disappears into Stiles over and over again.

“Oh god, stop being so weird and come up here and kiss me,” Stiles scolds, and Derek flushes, embarrassed.

“Can’t help it,” he grunts as he surges forward and bites at Stiles’ lips. “Looks so impossibly tight,” he says before he can stop himself, and Stiles chokes on a surprised moan and comes all over Derek’s fingers.

“Fuck, was that dirty talk?” Stiles asks faintly when his body stops spasming, and Derek presses his face against Stiles’ neck and works on sucking an obvious mark into the skin there instead of answering. “Okay, never mind, later,” he says squirming, and Derek realises he’s stopped moving. “Dammit, why did you stop,” Stiles gasps, wriggling himself on Derek’s dick and clenching down, and Derek shudders, sinking his teeth into Stiles’ shoulder in retaliation.

Stiles’ knees squeeze against Derek’s sides, a sign for _help, legs are jelly_ , so Derek arranges them around his waist the way Stiles likes best. Without giving Stiles time to tighten them, pulls out almost entirely and slams back in, latching onto Stiles’ mouth again as he fucks all the words out of Stiles and swallows them whole. Stiles is the one who wrenches his head back first for air, fingers tangling in Derek’s hair before murmuring helplessly, “love it when you come in me,” and Derek wants to say,  _me too_ , but all he can do is tremble and keen, hips snapping forward as his orgasm hits him and he empties himself in Stiles.

 

*

 

“So, wanna try it again?” Stiles asks after they’ve showered and are settled on the couch with a movie and take-out. There’s a twinkle in his eyes and Derek freezes for a second, wondering if they’re going to discuss his so-called dirty talk. “I was talking about the cookies,” Stiles adds, teasing, and Derek relaxes against him with a huff.

“We don’t have a whisk,” he says, trying not to sound too glum, and failing, if the look Stiles is giving him is any indication.

“We can go get one tomorrow,” Stiles promises, leaning in for a kiss and draping himself along Derek’s side.

They watch the movie in a comfortable silence that lasts all of half an hour before Stiles starts fidgeting, and when Derek can’t take it anymore he pauses the DVD. “What is it?” he asks warily, tilting his head to look at Stiles, watching as Stiles sits up straight and tangles their fingers together with a small smile.

“I just, I wanted to say thank you, for what you did today, with my mom’s cookies. No one’s ever - I know the last two years haven’t been easy for us but you’ve - I just -,”

“- I love you,” Derek blurts, and then averts his eyes in a panic as he waits for a wave of regret to wash over him.

 

It doesn’t come. 

He looks up and suddenly Stiles’ heartbeat is loud in his ears, pounding wildly as they stare at eachother, eyes wide with shock. “I - wow,” Stiles croaks weakly, and Derek watches as a smile takes over his entire face, helpless as he feels an answering one spread across his own. “Fuck,” Stiles whispers with a quiet awe, and before Derek can blink he has a lap full of Stiles and arms around his neck and he’s being kissed to within an inch of his life. “Never needed you to say it,” Stiles murmurs against his lips desperately like he’s trying to make Derek understand something, and Derek feels a warmth coil fiercely inside him because he does understand.

“I know,” he says, pulling back to look Stiles in the eyes. “I love you,” he repeats without looking away this time, and the flutter of anxiety he feels has shrunk significantly from before. He smiles and Stiles presses their foreheads together and exhales shakily.

“I love you too.”


End file.
